The Sheik of Araby Affair

by Robert Hart Davis

  The whole group seemed prepared to trail along, but Karsh delegated only Fritz and the wiry Perez to escort the prisoner.

  "The rest of you take a look around the area," he ordered. "Abdul here had to have transportation. Find out what he used to get here and report to me at the sheik's tent."

  Karsh then led the way up the corridor to the mess hall, through it and out the door leading from it to outdoors. Fritz and Pirez followed with Slate between them, covering him with pistols.

  Karsh led them across the stretch of sand to the oasis and to the front entrance of the sheik's tent.

  They were challenged by a robed Arab sentry just outside the tent, but when he recognized Maxim Karsh, he stepped aside to let the group enter.

  This was it, Slate thought. It was going to take superb acting to convince Mossagbah's supreme ruler that he was a native. And if he didn't convince him, he was very shortly going to be dead.

  SIX

  ENEMY TERRITORY

  Another Arab sentry armed with a rifle stood just inside the door. He frowned at the drawn pistols of Fritz and Perez, but apparently he knew them both; besides, it was quite obvious that they were drawn to cover the prisoner.

  He let the group pass without making any objection to the guns.

  The inside of the tent was like something from the Arabian Nights, with modern overtones. The main room was huge---probably fifty by thirty feet and the walls were hung with jeweled tapestries. A rich oriental rug covered the floor. Cushions to sit on were spread here and there, and low tables next to them contained beautifully carved gold and silver urns and chalices.

  But there was also some modern western furniture among the oriental splendor. A long handsome teakwood dining room table with six ornately carved chairs had been placed in the center of the area. In one corner, there were a couple of long sofas and several easy chairs. Lamps spaced around the room were electric, Slate noted. Then there must be a generator, because cables could hardly have been run this far out in the desert.

  A tall, handsome man in a white riding habit, glistening black boots and a jeweled turban was seated in one of the chairs reading a book. Even if he had met him somewhere else, Slate decided he would have recognized Sheik Ranjit Sighn from April's description. The thin black mustache and close cropped goatee did rather make him look like a debonair devil.

  The sheik glanced up in mild surprise at the intrusion, then laid aside his book and regarded Slate and the two guns trained on him curiously.

  Slate bowed deeply and said in Arabic, "May Allah smile on you always, most high and exalted one. I am your humble subject, Abdul the merchant."

  Ranjit Sighn said, "Greetings, Abdul. May Allah smile on you also."

  He looked at Maxim Karsh inquiringly.

  Karsh said, "We caught this man looting the lockers in the men's barracks. At best he's a thief. At worst he could be an U.N.C.L.E. agent."

  Ranjit glanced at Slate, with amusement, then back at Karsh. "Oh, come, Maxim. You see U.N.C.L.E. behind every palm tree."

  "Maybe he is Abdul the merchant," Karsh said doggedly. "He speaks Arabic. But that could be a pose. I want you to check him out thoroughly. You ought to be able to tell."

  Before the sheik could reply, curtains covering a doorway at the rear of the room parted and a dark, lovely young girl in Arab costume entered, bearing a tray containing coffee, sugar and cream. After glancing curiously at the visitors, she set it on a table next to Ranjit.

  "Thanks, Konya," the sheik said absently. "Would any of you gentlemen like coffee?"

  Karsh answered for all of them with a guttural, "No thanks."

  The girl walked away and gracefully sank onto a cushion. She examined Slate's darkened face with interest, then ran her gaze up and down his robed body.

  Ranjit added sugar and cream to his coffee, stirred it and sampled it before turning his attention to Slate.

  "What were you doing in the men's barracks, Abdul?" he asked in the Mossagbahan dialect.

  In the same language Slate said, "Liberating a few worthless possessions I thought the infidels would have no more use for, your highness. I was not aware they were under your protection."

  Ranjit smiled slightly. "What is your tribe?"

  "The Kadars, your highness." In English the sheik said to Karsh, "Nomads. Completely loyal. This is no U.N.C.L.E. agent."

  "How can you be sure?" Karsh asked.

  "I understand that most U.N.C.L.E. people are excellent linguists, but you can always tell when a language has been learned in school. This man speaks the lower class Mossagbahan dialect without accent and knows the slang.”

  "It is surprising more liberators of worthless possessions haven't appeared before now, because word of the foreigners' new buildings must have spread among all the nomadic tribes by this time. While no native would dare steal from me because it would be sacrilege, no such religious scruples apply to foreigners."

  Karsh was still unsatisfied. "He's wearing some kind of medal around his neck. I want you to look at it."

  Without waiting to be told, Slate pulled out the medallion by its gold chain and moved nearer to the sheik.

  Ranjit reached out to cradle it in his palm and examine it, then dropped it.

  "A Kadar prayer medallion," he said. "A fine one, too. Solid gold with a diamond setting. They sometimes save for years in order to own one. It keeps away evil Jinn and protects against Eblis, you see."

  "That's what he said," Karsh admitted reluctantly. "Who's Eblis?"

  "The prince of the apostate angels. Allah turned him into a devil for refusing to worship Adam. Adam and Eve are in our mythology too, you know."

  Slate tucked the medallion back down inside his robe.

  The sheik frowned at the still drawn guns held by Fritz and Perez.

  "Put those away," he said.

  "They aren't necessary. And let's see what's in that sack."

  The men meekly holstered their guns. Fritz handed over the gunny sack. After examining its contents, Ranjit gave it to Karsh.

  "Return all the items to their owners and forget it. Now that Abdul knows you are under my protection, you won't be bothered again. I'll tell him to spread the word among his tribe, so that none of them will bother you again."

  "You mean you're just going to turn this thief loose?" Karsh said indignantly.

  The sheik frowned again. "He won't appreciate being called a thief. He broke no Moslem law by 'liberating' possessions from infidels. He wouldn't understand punishment from his ruler and protector."

  "But suppose he is an U.N.C.L.E. agent after all?"

  The sheik glanced at the fake Abdul. "You speak English, do you?"

  "Some, a leetle, your highness,"

  Slate said with an Arabic accent. "Not good."

  "French?"

  Slate shook his head. "No, your highness."

  In French, which Slate spoke as well as English, Ranjit said to Karsh, "No U.N.C.L.E. agent could fool me into believing he's a Kadar, unless they've actually recruited a Kadar. And that's impossible. It would be against his religion to act against me.

  "This man will obey any order I give him, but I'm not going to order anything he would regard as punishment. He has to be released."

  Also in French, with an accent nearly as atrocious as his Arabic, Karsh said, "Would he obey your order to stay here and work on the construction project for pay? We could use another laborer, and at the same time we could keep an eye on him, just in case U.N.C.L.E. has managed to recruit one of your loyal tribesmen."

  The sheik looked slightly pained by Karsh's refusal to accept that none of his subjects were subvertable, but after considering, he reluctantly nodded.

  "That's an acceptable compromise which will save face all around."

  He said to Slate in Arabic, "Abdul, the sheik has need of your strong hands in the building of the structure he has commissioned the foreigners to erect. You will receive pay in accordance with the number of hours you work. Understand?"

&nb
sp; With a low bow, Slate said, "Yes, exalted ruler."

  "Go with Mr. Karsh here," Ranjit said, pointing to the broad-shouldered engineer. "Do as he tells you. I will see that you are paid adequately for your work."

  Slate offered another submissive bow.

  As he was led from the room, Slate glanced toward the servant girl, still quietly seated on her cushion. She gave him a shy smile.

  A friend in enemy territory was always welcome. He smiled back, but his smile wasn't shy. It was so intimate the girl blushed.

  The man named Sven was waiting outside the tent. He said to Karsh, "He came on a camel. It was staked behind a sand dune over there." He pointed vaguely to the west.

  "What did you do with it?" Karsh asked.

  "Put it in the corral." He gestured in the direction of a large barbed-wire corral near the edge of the oasis.

  In the moonlight Slate could see an armed Arab sentry slowly patrolling along the outside of the barbed-wire fence. That cut off his transportation, he thought. Even if he managed to overpower the sentry, he would be in full view of the guard stationed in front of the tent.

  The whole place was crawling with guards; getting out of it was going to be a considerable problem.

  And it was essential that he get the microfilm out.

  The guard in front of the tent would have to go first, Slate decided. Once he was disposed of, the one guarding the corral could be taken.

  Sometime after midnight, when the whole camp was asleep, he would make his move.

  Maxim Karsh put a hitch in this plan. Slate had assumed he would be quartered in one of the smaller tents with other Arab laborers. His assumption was wrong. He was led back to the administration building arid placed in the single bedroom opposite Karsh's.

  "My assistant is in Switzerland locating certain electronic equipment," the engineer explained. "His room will be vacant for a week, so you may as well use it. Aren't you lucky?" Slate knew exactly how Karsh felt about him.

  Slate attempted to summon a smile of appreciation.

  "We rise at six-thirty and begin work at seven-thirty," Karsh said curtly. "See you at breakfast."

  He went out, closed the door behind him and there was the sound of a key turning.

  The cautious Slav was taking no chances, even after the sheik's assurance that Abdul couldn't possibly be an U.N.C.L.E. agent, Slate thought ruefully. He checked the single window and found it barred.

  He took off his hooded robe and hung it up on a wall hook. Beneath it he wore the typical costume of a desert nomad: baggy trousers stuffed into well-worn knee boots and an upper pullover garment somewhat resembling a sweat shirt.

  Slate kicked off his boots, switched off the light and lay on his back on the single bunk.

  After locking the newly hired laborer in his room, Maxim Karsh walked down the hall to the men's barracks. He found all six occupants there.

  He said to Fritz, "Did you return everything to the proper owners?"

  "All but this," the big blond man said, holding up a fountain pen. "Nobody claimed it."

  Karsh took it from his hand and examined it.

  "Good pen," he said. "You're sure it doesn't belong to any of you?"

  One by one the occupants of the room shook their heads.

  "It looks familiar," Karsh said with a frown. "Seems to me I used to have one like it. But how would it get in here?"

  The slim Spaniard Perez said, "Maybe one of the fellows borrowed it from you some time, boss, and forgot to return it."

  Karsh looked around the group.

  "Did one of you borrow it? Is this my old pen?"

  Nobody would admit being the culprit.

  "Somebody here's mighty forgetful," Karsh growled. "Here after when you borrow something, remember to return it."

  He stuck the pen in his shirt pocket.

  SEVEN

  ROAD TO ESCAPE

  It was just past midnight when Slate was awakened by a low hiss outside his window. Rolling over to look that way, he saw the dim outline of a head and shoulders. This side of the building was in shadow, but the head and shoulders were silhouetted against the moonlight beyond it.

  With a catlike movement he bounced erect and went over to the window.

  It was the servant girl the sheik had called Konya.

  Slate merely smiled at her and waited.

  "Hello," she said shyly in Arabic.

  "Hello yourself."

  After a moment of silence she volunteered, "I am Konya."

  "Allah bless you, Konya," Slate said. "I am Abdul."

  "Allah bless you also, Abdul. Why have they made you a prisoner?"

  "The infidel Karsh does not understand our ways," Slate said. "He thinks I'm a thief. The sheik didn't order me locked up. It's only Mr. Karsh's idea."

  "Do you wish me to talk with his highness?" Konya asked. "Perhaps he will order you freed."

  Slate contemplated this and decided it might be poor tactics. Having passed one inspection by Ranjit Sighn, he preferred to stay out of his way. The sheik might ask some embarrassing question Slate couldn't answer, such as an inquiry after the health of some sub-chief of the Kadars of whom Slate had never heard.

  "I'm not being mistreated," he said. "It's comfortable here. Tomorrow I am to start work on the steel tower the foreigners are building and am to be paid for it."

  Konya said wistfully, "In a way I am as much a prisoner as you are."

  "I thought you were a member of the sheik's household," Slate said in surprise. "You're a prisoner?"

  "Not really. I only feel like one. Actually I have some status. I am the daughter of Orkhim."

  "Orkhim?"

  "The chief of his highness' personal guard."

  "Oh. Then why do you feel like a prisoner?"

  "You do not understand how it is with women in our country, because you are a man. Oh, I am envied by the other women of the oasis because I have fine quarters in the sheik's tent. I would not have to work as his servant. It is my own choice.

  "But what is my alternative? I can live in the small, poorly furnished tent of my father and cook for him."

  "You could get married," Slate said. "A girl as attractive as you should have no trouble finding a husband."

  "To one of the sheik's guard or one of the laborers?" she said scornfully. "They are all ignorant and illiterate." She added proudly, "I was educated by the sheik's royal tutor. I speak English and French and can read and write in both. I have read in books of how women are treated in such places as the United States of America. Do you know that women there have the same rights as men?"

  "Sometimes more," Slate said dryly.

  "It is my dream to go to the United States," Konya said wistfully. "I would run away from this place in a minute if I thought I could get there." Then she sighed. "It is but an idle dream. I have no money and no friends in the outside world. I wouldn't get even as far as Fada before I was caught and brought back and beaten by my father."

  Slate said, "Are you really serious about this?"

  "I was never more serious in my life," she said fervently. "I hate my life here."

  He examined her upturned face, considering whether to trust her or not. She could be a plant sent by the sheik to test him.

  Then he decided she couldn't be.

  The sheik had been so convinced of his estimate of Abdul the merchant, he been irritated by Karsh's continued suspicion. He decided to take a chance.

  Switching to English, he said quietly, "I could maybe get you to America, Konya."

  She looked surprised. In the same language she said, "You?" Then she frowned. "You speak English better than you did in the sheik's tent. You sound like an educated man."

  "I'm not exactly illiterate," he admitted.

  "You have been to school?"

  "Yes."

  She gave him a delighted smile.

  "I knew there was something special about you the moment I saw you. You held yourself with more pride than the cringing dogs who serve the sheik. You
are the first Mossagbahan aside from the sheik I ever met who had education."

  He decided there was no point in letting her know he wasn't one of her countrymen. He said, "There are many others. Your experience has been confined to desert nomads."

  "Could you really get me to America? You are only joking, of course. How could you do it?" she asked eagerly.

  "Not only get you there, but see that you are taken care of after you arrived. I have friends. We'll go together."

  She gave him a sidelong glance.

  "You wish me to run away with you?"

  He said, "Let's get something straight. I'm not making romantic advances. I'm suggesting a business deal. You help me get out of this cell and I'll take you with me to America. My friends there who will see that you receive enough training for you to get a job and make your own living. But don't get any romantic ideas."

  She looked disappointed. There was a long silence. Finally he said, "Well?"

  "You're not teasing me?" she asked. "How come you, a mere Kadar tribesman, have such important friends in America?"

  "It's a long story," he said. "I'll explain it on the way to America. But may Allah strike me dead if I deceive you."

  She stared at him through the bars for some moments. Then she breathed, "I believe you, Abdul. I do not understand, but I believe you. What do you wish me to do?"

  "Do you know where the men's barracks room is?"

  She nodded. "On the opposite side of the building."

  "Somewhere in the sand just beneath the window is a thin strip of steel about three inches long. Find it and bring it to me."

  "A piece of steel?" she said puzzledly.

  "Like a nail with a head, only thinner and flatter. It is what is known as a pick-lock. With it I can get out of here."

  "But why would such a thing be there?"

  "Don't ask questions," he said patiently. "Just go find it."

  From birth Moslem women are trained to be submissive to their male betters. Konya was obviously still puzzled, but she obediently moved to the rear of the building and around to the other side.

  She was gone nearly a half hour.

  When she finally returned, she looked in at Slate apologetically.